


Coquelicot

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon gets his horses directly.





	Coquelicot

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for this week’s [silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/post/162260290455/32-the-riders-of-rohan) wherein Éomer mentions Sauron’s soldiers stealing black horses.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He comes to them under the veil of night, when they’ve already setup their pitiful camp and their fire isn’t quite enough to see him by. It burns shallow and small compared to the great pits he’s used to, his licked white-hot with the flames of the earth itself. He bathes in broiling water warmer than their coals. But he keeps his pity and his loathing off his face; for this, he must be _fair_.

He could go to the halls of the ‘king’ perhaps, at least, the one they bow to, though that mere mortal has no true power. Even the king’s descendents might better help his cause. But they’re nothing to look at. The man he strides for now makes a handsome figure, as far as Men go. Certainly more so than the hideous orcs that litter Mordor. And Mairon misses _handsome_ things. He remembers well when he was young, and his dark master brought him only the prettiest of toys.

Éomer only turns when Mairon is a meter away, and then surprise is on his attractive face, his hand automatically falling to the hilt at his hip. Mairon sheds his hood and tosses out his hair, gold-orange as the light of his forge, his face as beautiful as he could make it, his visage an elf’s for the trust it affords him. Indeed, Éomer softens too swiftly. He declines to withdraw his sword, and he makes no signals to his men. He stands not far from them, but a few trees lie between, and indeed Mairon put it in his mind to come here; Mairon wants this man _alone_.

He beckons one black finger, marred with a stain he’s never managed to shed, and Éomer frowns but drifts closer. A few more steps, and Mairon has positioned them out of sight completely. He purrs as Éomer approaches him, “I greet you, Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. You look well this evening.”

“You know my name,” Éomer returns, his voice deep and smooth, just the way Mairon likes, though such tones never reach as low as his late master’s, “but I do not know yours.”

“You know of me,” Mairon promises, with a smile sweet as his heart is sour. He knows if he just gives the right _look_ , all suspicion will slip from his subject’s mind. Éomer is new to him, but none of his playthings have felt _truly_ new in centuries. Éomer is slow to nod, but nod he does, and Mairon steps closer to add, “I have need of your aid, horse master.”

Éomer’s frown deepens. He must not be as far under Mairon’s spell as Mairon would like, for he asks warily, “What do you seek?”

“Horses, of course.” These lands have nothing else of value. Éomer’s eyes take on a sharpness, roving down Mairon’s form, though it’s all hidden below his cloak. Mairon’s hands lift to the clasp—he came prepared to pay for them. Prepared to play.

Éomer asks, “For whom?”

“No one but myself.” It’s the truth, though Éomer doesn’t know the gravity of it. before Éomer can ask further, Mairon pulls his cloak loose and lets it slide back along his arms, tumbling past and falling to the ground. It leaves only his thin robes beneath, dark crimson with black embroidery, befitting of the Elven kings of old. Éomer wouldn’t be able to perceive anything greater. But Mairon can see the splendor already sparking Éomer’s attention, and Éomer’s heated gaze slips down his body with growing awe. Mairon always did know how to become an alluring sight. 

He places one hand square on Éomer’s broad chest and closes what little distance is left, letting their bodies brush together and his breath ghost along Éomer’s chin. Éomer stands only slightly taller, for Mairon knew that it would help, that Men fall so easily for a sense of domination and see it in the most mundane little details. He catches his other fingers in the dark blond tresses spilling over Éomer’s shoulders, and he tilts his face to bring their lips so close together that he can taste Éomer’s beating lungs. 

Éomer asks, eyes falling half closed and pupils dilating wide, “How many do you ask?”

Mairon draws his bottom lip along Éomer’s, whispering right into Éomer’s open mouth, “As many as you will give me.”

Éomer looks about to ask another question, but Mairon cuts it off in a chaste kiss, just a light, fleeting thing that leaves him shivering with _hunger_ —it’s been far too long since he enjoyed such raw delights. The other Valar didn’t like to dabble so, but his master taught him the pleasures of debauchery. When his master would destroy all the world, Mairon always planned to keep a few trinkets like this Éomer for himself.

Éomer is _weak_. He stands tall, proud, and wore a sternness when Mairon first approached him, but now he presses back with no convincing. He kisses his stranger with quick intensity, guard fallen utterly away. Mairon presses into it and lets Éomer kiss him _harder_ , lean in closer, even wrap a thick arm tight around his waist. He lets himself be pulled into a crushing embrace, even lets Éomer’s eager tongue slip into his mouth. He sucks on it with an idle sense of indulgence. Éomer tastes only of old wine and ash, but Mairon enjoys himself. 

When he parts their mouths, Éomer shudders and tries to follow him, but Mairon turns his head aside and promises, “I will pay for them well.” Éomer gives no price, and Mairon doesn’t allow the chance—he runs his hand down Éomer’s flat chest to dip between his legs, gently cupping the growing bulge there, and Éomer groans loudly. Mairon gives it a squeeze and kneads it as he purrs, “You will give them to me... but only black ones.”

Éomer’s brows knit together. That must be a signal to him—surely he’s noticed the only kind of horses Mairon’s soldiers ever collect on raids. But Mairon knows just how to belay such concerns, and he sinks gracefully down to the earth, kneeling before Éomer with his eyes bright as the trees he helped destroy. Éomer stares into them, already panting hard. 

He still manages to croak, “Why the black ones?”

Grinning coyly, Mairon coos, “Because it is my favourite colour.” Or lack thereof. Éomer grits his teeth, perhaps wanting to protest, but Mairon has already closed his mouth over Éomer’s belt, and his tongue makes quick work of the clasp. He pulls Éomer’s breeches open with his teeth and tugs the fabric down. He isn’t particularly surprised when Éomer’s cock springs out, fully hard, to meet him. 

Mairon will admit, if not aloud, that Éomer’s package is an impressive one—longer than he usually gives Men credit for, and almost as thick as those of his orcs, with taut, heavy stones below and a mat of golden hair just above the base. Mairon’s fingers close around the shaft with an old ease, and he drags his tongue slowly across the tip, eyes fixed on Éomer’s broken expression. It’s always the most satisfying to watch the truly _noble_ ones fall. 

When Marion closes his lips around the head, Éomer groans loud, head tossing back, and both labour-calloused hands dart into his hair. Mairon merely mewls in encouragement; he’s always enjoyed having his hair pulled, though no one since has ever managed to make him feel as gratified as his master did. Perhaps another time, if Mairon should have need of more steeds within Éomer’s lifetime, he’ll return and instruct Éomer properly, remind the horse lord that a man’s hair need be no different than a horse’s reigns. Mairon rarely affords others such honour, but when he does, he wants to at least enjoy it to its fullest. 

Éomer is pleasant enough to taste. Mairon slides himself smoothly down the long cock, suckling as he goes, wanting to drink in and savour the feeling of it, and Éomer hisses in delight and digs his fingers into Mairon’s skull. When Mairon reaches the base, the tip fully seated in his throat, Éomer’s hips stutter forward. Mairon makes a quick choking noise but keeps himself in check. His master often fucked his mouth with abandon, and Éomer’s slender hips will do him no harm. 

As Marion makes no move to end it, Éomer’s boldness increases. By the time Mairon is sliding back again, Éomer is bucking forward, slamming his cock down Mairon’s throat and swiftly withdrawing, only to repeat the movement. Mairon continues his own pace anyway, unencumbered by Éomer’s impatience. He enjoys himself as he will, and the sensation of Éomer’s girth pounding mercilessly into him, Éomer’s sac slapping his chin, Éomer hands holding him in, only enhances the moment. The wet squelching noises are soon as loud as Éomer’s panting and cries. If it weren’t for Mairon’s spell, he’s sure the others would all come running. But Mairon’s magic still bears some hold over the fickle hearts of Men and, for now, at least, he wants only Éomer alone. 

He sucks Éomer’s cock until his skill proves too much for Éomer to stand against. Éomer comes with a wild scream that has the horses whining worriedly in the distance. A hot jet bursts across Mairon’s tongue, and he presses forward to sheath Éomer completely again, so he can drink it straight down his throat in large, greedy gulps. He swallows it all with a ravenous hunger he didn’t even know he had—it’s been far, far too long. 

And he’s displeased when it’s over. It finishes far too fast, Éomer pushing back to draw his cock free, leaving Mairon’s mouth wide and dribbling down his chin. Éomer stumbles back and lets himself fall to the ground, where he sits in a sweaty mess. He looks truly _wrecked_ as only Mairon’s mouth could make someone, though he doesn’t even know the full extent of what he’s been through—that he’s felt pleasure like no other at the hands of his greatest enemy. That knowledge brings Marion much satisfaction. He crawls forward to where Éomer sits, so he can press a wet kiss against Éomer’s stubble-covered cheek.

“You will bring me black horses,” Mairon drawls, the tone seductive but the words a command. Éomer weakly nods. 

When his eyes finally come back into focus, he asks, “When will I see you again?” 

Mairon grins. He muses, “When I need more horses.” Or perhaps just when he needs release. Éomer would make a pretty plaything to have in the dark chambers of Mairon’s keep, but then, he’s more valuable here: a man on the inside, with his heart and his cock in Mairon’s waiting hands. 

Mairon gives Éomer’s shapely lips a final kiss, and then he collects his cloak, rises to his feet, and drifts away beneath the stars.


End file.
